


Butterflies, Unicorns, and Two Children

by Codadilupo



Category: The Last Unicorn (1982), The Last Unicorn - All Media Types, The Last Unicorn - Peter S. Beagle
Genre: Butterflies, Caterpillars, Childhood Dreams, Gen, TLU, characters in their childhood, some original characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codadilupo/pseuds/Codadilupo
Summary: Glimpses in Schmendrick and Molly Grue's childhood, and how important a butterfly and unicorns have been for them.
Kudos: 2





	Butterflies, Unicorns, and Two Children

**Author's Note:**

> I relied a lot on "The Green-Eyed Boy" by Peter S. Beagle to write Schmendrick's part of this short story (Patros is actually the name of one of his brothers, in Beagle's story): I think that it offers the reader a very clear - if quick- picture of Schmendrick's family life. He is considered the village idiot by his own parents and brothers, mocked, ignored, or told that he is useless right in his face; basically, they had been verbally and emotionally abusing a child all of his life. I tried to recreate what his interactions with his family could possibly be, especially with his mother. 
> 
> As for Molly, no short stories exist about her. I think that it's safe to say that young Molly must have been a hard worker all of her life, with a not so hinted sensitivity for legends and ballads... I tried to give her a realistic context.

The child’s green eyes widened in awe, as he crouched to better observe the caterpillar attaching itself upside-down to the silk pad, before it slowly split its skin and spun, revealing its chrysalis. He had never seen it happen and was reverently examining the scene, almost without breathing to not disturb the caterpillar. Only his mother’s voice called him back to reality, making him quietly walking away.

“Where were you, Schmendrick?” She asked, not really wanting to know _where_ her youngest son was, rather than making him realize that she was displeased by the fact he didn’t answer her straight away when she had called him the first time. She had no time to waste, and she didn’t like delays in her daily routine.

The eight-year-old didn’t even bother to answer her – he knew too well she wouldn’t have listened. He also decided that he wouldn’t have told her about the caterpillar... He was afraid she would have crushed it.

“Here, help me with these,” she handed him some sheets to hold as she hung them on the line. If that kid was good for something at all, that would be standing silent and still for long periods of time, spacing and daydreaming. _Perfect for holding up the laundry_ , she thought sarcastically. “Do not drop them, I warn you.”

“I won’t, mother,” the child replied, genuinely happy that his mother had entrusted him with a chore – a silly, simple one, but at least she wanted him around. Still, the idea of the caterpillar rang in the back of his mind, until it became too much for him.

“Mother? Why do caterpillars turn into butterflies?”

“Because that’s how it is, pumpkin,” his mother replied, without looking at him, still busy with her laundry. When that boy wasn’t staring at nothing, mute as a monk, he would pester her with questions about the most disparate topics, which she always tried to cut short.

“But isn’t it strange?” Schmendrick went on, mostly speaking to himself. “They are so different... How could something like a caterpillar turn into something so graceful and beautiful?”

His mother kept on with her work, turning to him only to take a sheet from his arms, in the hope that, if she hadn’t answered him, he would have quit asking her questions she didn’t know how to respond and didn’t even care to. She spoke only to warn him to mind the sheets.

“Schmendrick, hold your arms still. I really do not want to rewash these.”

“Yes, mother. I’m sorry,” he murmured, hanging his head. She never raised her voice against him, but he could feel her annoyance and disinterest... That cut him deeper than any yell or chastisement would have done.

She pinned the last sheet with two clothespins. “There, all done. Thank you for your help, Schmendrick. You can go back to whatever you were doing now,” she said, distractingly ruffling his hair and going back inside, without a second glance.

Schmendrick took a deep breath. He really wanted to ask her if she needed him to help her with other chores, but he knew that would have been for nothing. He might as well have asked a tree if it could bend to let him climb it... That would have been just as useless and stupid, and despite what his parents and his brothers said, he wasn’t _that_ foolish.

He sat on the doorsill, looking at the hung laundry rustling in the wind, his face resting on his hands, picturing images of magical creatures in his mind at every flap of the sheets. One time he could see a griffin, then a dragon; next, a unicorn. Schmendrick looked, fascinated, wondering if he would have ever seen any of those creatures in real life...

Something hitting him on his back and his brother’s curse quickly interrupted his stream of thoughts. Patros hadn’t noticed his youngest sibling and had accidentally bumped into him while making his egress.

“Damn it, Schmendrick! What are you doing now?” He scooted him with a foot, forcing him to get up. “Come on, you ninny, papa will spank some sense into you if he catches you standing there like that.”

The boy stood up. He was tall, for his age, but by his much sturdier brother’s side, he looked almost weedy, puny... Patros kept on vigorously poking Schmendrick, to annoy him rather than to make him move, now.

“Stop!”

“Make me, pipsqueak. This will teach you to not fall asleep on the doorsill.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Schmendrick protested, raising his hands to keep Patros back. “I was thinking...”

“Patros, leave your brother alone,” their mother’s voice echoed, unexpressive. “If he wants to think about butterflies, just let him.”

Schmendrick turned red with embarrassment. He really didn’t want to let Patros know about that. With Aidan, the oldest of his brothers, maybe, but not with him. Patros had always been more prone to annoy and make fun of him. At least Aidan, as uninterested and workaholic as he was, would try to answer Schmendrick’s questions, even though he usually came up with something stupid, convinced that the child was enough of a dummy to buy it.

“Ooooh, butterflies?” Patros said, in a mocking tone. “Why, I didn’t know I had a little sister instead of a brother. What’s next, girlie? Fairies and unicorns?”

“Fairies and unicorns are not ‘girlie,’” Schmendrick stammered, still flushed. “They are magical creatures, and they are not to be laughed at.”

“Yeah, right... Just make sure to invite me when you have your next tea-party with your magical friends, mh? Hope there will be sugar cookies and rainbows. See you later, squirt, gotta go help father in the workshop,” with a pinch on Schmendrick’s arm, Patros left.

Upset and humiliated, Schmendrick walked away. He was used to his brothers’ mockery and especially to Patros’ teasing. Still, he was very self-conscious about the things he so often daydreamed about. They could call him a fool, an airhead... he didn’t care, as long as they did not start to make fun of the objects of his waking dreams. That was a sensitive topic for him, and was quite jealous of them, so he made sure to never tell anyone, at the cost of being taken for a simpleton.

After checking on the caterpillar – who had now completely turned into a chrysalis – and making sure that the place was safe and quiet enough, Schmendrick walked back to the house, climbed up the stairs, and entered the room he shared with Patros and Aidan. Glancing around, he removed one of the planks behind his bed, pulled out a small, dusty book, and walked away, after putting the wooden plank back in place.

Although he had been taught how to read and write, reading wasn’t encouraged in his family. What was the use of it, anyway, if it couldn’t be employed for business? But Schmendrick had developed a taste for it, also thanks to a wandering storyteller that happened in the village once a month. The old man had appreciated Schmendrick’s interest in reading so much that it had become a tradition for him to lend the boy a book each month. Schmendrick would have read it, and then given it back when the storyteller would have stopped by for his monthly visit. It had been almost two years since they had started their exchange, and Schmendrick had never failed to return the books.

He walked through the village, making sure that no one paid attention to him, and reached for an old, rickety hut, once used to store hay, now unexploited. The boy sneaked in and quietly climbed to the mezzanine, where he had arranged his own reading spot. Snuggling up against the wall, he opened the book, looking for the page where he was at.

The book was a collection of some of the most famous Merlin’s legends. Schmendrick read eagerly, his green eyes shimmering, grinding page after page. He particularly liked the story of young Merlin, king Vortigern, and the two serpents; Merlin was so smart, so confident, and so full of magical power... Sometimes, Schmendrick wished he could be like him.

But those were stories, legends... His reality was different. He was just the dumb son of a cooper, a little _schmendrick_ , as everyone had started to call him from a very early age, at home and outside home. The best he could hope for himself was to be employed as his father’s business bookkeeper – provided his parents didn’t think he was too much of an idiot for such a delicate job, of course. He might as well just enjoy those stories before reality became too much of a burden for him to bear. Good thing daydreaming kept him sane, despite his father thought the contrary.

* * *

Molly scrubbed the pot, slowly, listening fondly to her uncle’s singing. When he started the _stanza_ about Robin Hood running away with Maid Marian, she silently put down the pot and rested her head on her hands, sitting by the fire. That was her favorite part...

“Mollie, what did I tell you?” Her mom said, mildly, but seriously. “First, you help mommy doing the washing up, then we listen to uncle Alan.”

The little girl huffed, but, without protesting, she took back the pot and kept on scrubbing. Her small hands worked on the encrusted scraps with expertise; at the tender age of nine years old, she already had her fair share of dirty kitchenware to wash, dusty floors to sweep up, and other similar chores she had always gotten done.

“I know it might sound unfair to you, Mollie,” her mom went on saying, amused by Molly’s determination. “Ballads are beautiful, and life is nothing without dreams, and poems, and legends... But, unless you are a minstrel, a storyteller, a poet – and even they have their troubles - they do not feed you. Life is hard work, sweetie, and the sooner you learn how to survive, the better it is.”

“It’s alright, mama,” Molly answered, without taking her eyes off her work. “I understand.”

“That’s my girl. As soon as you have finished with that pot, you are free to do as you please.”

 _Fair enough_ , Molly thought. Mom was strict, but not unjust; she never overloaded Molly with work or never allowed her to take a break. What she was doing was teaching work ethic and some sense of duty to her middle-child. Whatever life had in store for Molly, her mom wanted to make sure that her daughter was ready to provide for herself.

Molly rinsed the pot thoroughly, dried it with a clean rag, and proudly showed it to her mother. “Done!” She announced, with a broad smile, her tawny eyes filled with hope. The woman smiled and nodded.

“Very good, sweetheart. You have earned your night off; I can take it from here.”

Molly cleaned her hands on the apron, which she promptly removed, before hurrying to her uncle. She sat down, her legs crossed. She might have missed the best parts of the ballad of Robin Hood, but she hoped with all her heart that uncle Alan would have told some of her favorite stories.

Alan seemed to have read her mind. He winked at her and said, “Well, since Molls had joined us, I think it is time for me to tell the story of the unicorn and the hunter’s daughter...”

The story was sad and beautiful at the same time: it was about a young, sickly girl, who could be healed only by the touch of a unicorn. One day, as she journeyed with her father searching for one, she had felt so sick that she could not go on, and her father was forced to leave her alone for a while to get her some water. One wandering unicorn had taken pity in her and had touched her heart with his horn. It was then that the father had gotten back and, thinking that the animal was hurting his daughter, had tried to loosen an arrow at it. Startled, the unicorn had turned his head, snapping the tip of his horn into the girl’s heart, before running away. The rest of the story was about the hunter’s daughter trying to find the unicorn, to give back the tip of the horn still lodged in her heart.

Molly had heard the story so many times, and she could never get enough of it. She caught her breath, as her uncle described the unicorn, shuddered in fear when the hunter took his bow and wept with the girl along her troubled journey. She wasn’t in their old, smokey kitchen anymore: she was in the open air, walking by a unicorn, reverently brushing its soft mane... Her mind wandered freely, in a land of magical creatures, princesses, handsome outlaws, and wicked kings. Hard work was her daily bread, but fairytales and legends were her cup of tea, and her family knew it well.

Her mother really didn’t know what to think of Molly’s obsession. The girl had never been discouraged from indulging in her dreams, but sometimes, she was afraid that her passion was a little... _too_ heartfelt, to be fair. That’s why she was putting some extra-effort in teaching Molly the value of hard work.

“... and that’s how the story of the hunter’s daughter and the unicorn ended,” uncle Alan said, giving a chuck on Molly’s cheek. The child’s eyes shone like stars, still so deeply into the story that she could hear the unicorn’s tilting whinnying in her ears.

Everyone got up to prepare for the night. Alan picked her niece up, smiling and saying, “Come on, little girl... You can keep on dreaming in a moment.”

“Do you think unicorns exist for real, uncle Alan?” She whispered, trying to not let her mother ear her. She always got so upset when Molly asked that kind of questions, as if she was afraid that Molly would have run away on an outlaw’s horseback, or such nonsense...

“Why, of course they do,” Alan whispered back, winking. “And I’m sure they can’t wait to come for you, Molls.”

Again, Molly’s eyes twinkled. Oh, yes! She couldn’t wait, too! She had been practicing her curtsy religiously and had come up with a few questions to ask the creature. However, she was well-aware that her voice would have probably failed her that day.

She climbed up in her bed, received her goodnight kisses, and waited for Dylan, her 4-years-old brother, to fall asleep, before she sneaked out of the sheets to peek outside the window, still too bewitched by uncle Alan’s story to fall asleep, not so secretly hoping to catch glimpses of shiny white fur.

Resting her face on her hands, Molly thought intensely. She just couldn’t understand why her mama was so concerned with her fantasies. That was all they were, after all, an imaginative and sensitive child’s fantasies, nothing more, nothing less, and Molly had always proven to be a dutiful little girl, even without her mother’s training.

To be honest, she had quite the tendency to cause some fuss, every once in a while... Fierce, just like her father, and with a sharp tongue that went well with her quick right-hook. She wasn’t a gratuitous troublemaker, anyway. She would have dove head-in into a fight only when she had seen something unfair happening, like other kids taking up on the smallest and the most vulnerable. _That_ Molly could not stand, much to her mother's exasperation and her father’s pride, who openly encouraged his adored child to always fight against what she deemed unjust.

Sometimes, she was afraid that unicorns wouldn’t have come to them because of that. Maybe she needed to be quieter, more “girly”... Was she too much of a tomboy? Was her demeanor too rough and ungraceful for a unicorn? But she was a good girl, after all. She helped her mama and her papa, took care of Dylan, and always worked hard, despite her age. Why wouldn’t they have come to her?

Sighing, she thought that it was time to go to bed and at least try to get some sleep. The next morning, she and Jean, her teenage sister, were to rose up early to attend some chores. Another day of work, like always, in the life of the middle child of a couple of respectable sharecroppers, where everyone, Molly and Dylan included, had to contribute to the family well-being.

She curled up in bed, feeling now more than a little tired, eager to see what that night dream would have been about. Her favorites were those about Robin Hood. She lived so many adventures in her dreams, and sometimes couldn’t help but wish for herself to live that way. No floors to sweep and scrub, no kitchenware. Only freedom, and romance, and adventures and... and...

 _Aaah, here I go, again_ , she shook her head and her wild, wavy hair – pride and joy of her father, who had the very, same untamed mane. Dreaming was one thing, delusional thoughts were another. Feeling silly for just having thought about it, Molly rubbed her eyes with her little, already chapped, and hardened hands unceremoniously yawned, and fell asleep. Her last thought, before she fell into a deep slumber, was that maybe, the next evening, she would have sneaked out again to the waterlily pond, to see if she could actually spot a unicorn.

* * *

Schmendrick silently looked out of the window. Dark, leaden clouds were gathering, with the not so subtle promise of pouring rain, for that afternoon. Concerned, the child walked out of the house, heading to the place were the chrysalis was. It had been almost twenty days since he had spotted the caterpillar pupating, and now the due time was close. What if the rain would have damaged it? Would it have killed the butterfly, destroyed it?

It was still there, untouched and quiet as always. But Schmendrick was too nervous and too concerned. Where could he hide it? Suddenly, he thought that he could take it to his reading spot, where it was likely that no one would have bothered it. Carefully, Schmendrick snapped the branch to which the chrysalis was attached. He decided he would have taken the longer route to the shack, to not cross the village.

Walking slowly and with extreme care, Schmendrick picked up some leaves and grass along his way, which, when he arrived at the hut and had climbed the mezzanine, he arranged to create a comfortable and quiet nest, on which he placed the branch, making sure that the chrysalis was still attached and hanging from it.

To cut his way back short, he walked through the village, this time, for he wasn’t afraid to have his chrysalis crushed. As usual, no one gave much of a thought about him, except for the baker, who shouted his over-rehearsed joke about Schmendrick being thick as a brick and yet not the son of the bricklayer...

“Wash your hands, Schmendrick,” his mother said without turning, as he entered the house. “Soup’s ready in a minute.”

Not a _where have you been_ , not an _are you hungry_... Schmendrick silently washed his hands, still staring outside the window. The clouds had turned darker, now, and a low, rumbling thunder echoed in the distance. Once again, his curiosity arose, and he turned to his mother.

“Mother? Can I ask you a question?”

“You asked two already, and I can sense the third coming, so go on...”

“Why does it rain so often, here?”

She sighed irritated. Why the heck would he wanted to know that? Who was she, Zeus, lord of rain and storm? How could she know that? Time to give her son an answer that would have stopped him from bothering her with his absurd, useless questions.

“Well, pumpkin,” she said, stirring the soup and setting the table. “Rain is nothing else than angels’ tears, who cry each time you do or say something stupid, which seems to happen quite often. Better start acting less silly if we want the weather to improve, don’t we?”

Schmendrick’s eyes widened. He was used to his mother diverting from his questions, answering him dryly, or outright ignoring him, but that had been too much, even by her already loose standards... The child’s mouth trembled just so slightly before he took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his shirt, his cheeks burning with shame.

Sitting at the table, Schmendrick waited patiently for the others to be served. The order was always the same, regardless of whom had been the first to sit down: first, his father, then Aidan, Patros, his mother, and, finally, Schmendrick. Useless to say, the boy could very rarely hope for seconds.

“What are you thinking about, Schmendrick?” Aidan asked politely enough. His youngest brother was again spacing out, looking out of the window, his weird green eyes lost and mesmerized by something only him seemed able to see. Aidan usually didn’t care much about Schmendrick. Still, sometimes he felt some sympathy for that poor, slow-witted child he had been given as a sibling.

“Oh... I was just-” Schmendrick hesitated, still scorned by his mother’s previous answer. But yet again, he couldn’t help. “I was looking at the mountain, and I wondered what’s beyond it-”

“I’ll tell you what there is,” his father broke in, speaking for the first time since he had entered the house. “There are forests and forests of the finest white durmast. As soon as Patros comes of age, next year, I can get an arrangement done. He’ll get a wife, we’ll get a supply of high-quality wood for our business.”

Schmendrick’s attention was, yet again, focused on something else. Why would they always talk about business, anyway? Even marriage was a matter of business to them. He wondered if Patros was actually okay with their father’s decision... But Patros was basically a younger copy of their father, so Schmendrick wasn’t that surprised that he didn’t protest or spoke on his behalf.

“Father, we better start working now... It’s going to rain, and if we don’t want to waste all of the afternoon, we better be going,” Aidan said, glancing outside. If Patros was identical to their father, Aidan was the spitting image of their mother... An aloof, indifferent workaholic.

The old man growled something under his breath, agreeing with Aidan. Getting up, he gestured with his thumb at Schmendrick.

“You come with us,” he said roughly. “We have to work fast, and we are going to need a pair of extra hands.”

The boy hadn’t finished eating yet, but he knew better than make his father wait. He quickly downed what was left in his bowl, before hurrying after his father and his brothers to the workshop.

“Here,” Schmendrick’s father brusquely said. “Patros mills and dresses the staves, you rise up the cask. Foolproof job for you today, do not mess up.” He turned, saying no more, to help Aidan charring the inside of an already composed barrel that they would have hooped soon.

Patros was fast, skilled, and Schmendrick had a hard time keeping up with his pace. With quick hands, the child feverishly placed the staves Patros handed him in a metal hoop, fitting them together. Whenever he would finish one, he kept it steady as Aidan hammered another hoop on the top of the roughly formed cask, ready for steaming.

“Good job, kid, good job,” Aidan actually smiled a little. “Glad to see you are finally showing some sense – mind your fingers.” He delivered another blow to the hoop, to which Schmendrick closed his eyes.

He didn’t even have the time to re-open them; he suddenly felt something sticky on his nose and face. He retreated, instinctively, spitting and coughing. Patros had smeared him with the tar they used to coat transport barrels.

“Whoops! Sorry!” Patros said, sneering. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Patros, you idiot!” Aidan blurted. “For once that he was helpful!”

Schmendrick was trying to clean his face, only worsening the situation. He had tar everywhere, on his face, his hands, his clothes... He confusedly heard his father yelling at him to not touch anything and to stand still, Aidan chastising Patros, and Patros himself both laughing and protesting that it had been just a little prank. The child felt hands on his shoulders, rudely shoving him out and urging him to just go wash himself and stay out of the workshop since he seemed to be more of a burden rather than a help.

Everything had happened so fast that, for a couple of seconds, Schmendrick just stood there, blinking, looking like the simpleton his family had always taken him for. He slowly walked to the wooden washtub in front of the house, knelt down, and tried to scrub away the tar, with very little success. Schmendrick glanced at his reflection, meeting two intensely sad green eyes that starkly contrast with the black smudges on his face and hair.

Patros’ gesture had been so gratuitous, and his father sending him out like it was Schmendrick’s fault so unfair, that the boy just hung his head and started to silently weep over the washtub. A sudden thunder made him look up, tears still trickling down his eyes. Seemed like it was about to finally rain. The child got up and hurried to his solitary refuge, where he could stay quiet for a while; the last thing he wanted to hear right now was his mother teasing him.

In the safety of the shack, huddling, Schmendrick hid his face in his arms. He didn’t feel like crying anymore – he had never been much of a crybaby. Heck, if he had to weep each time his parents and brothers did him wrong, he would have had run out of tears already. But he was feeling very lonely and tired.

What would have young Merlin done in his place? Indeed, he wouldn’t have hidden in an old hovel, whining and self-pitying. He would have stood up for himself, with wit and confidence, for sure. He would have used his powers, showed them that they were wrong about him. But he wasn’t Merlin... He was just Schmendrick, stupid, stupid Schmendrick. Everyone was right about him, and he would have never been anything more than a worthless fool.

Sniffling, the boy casually glanced at the chrysalis. He blinked when he noticed some movement and, catching his breath, he hurried closer, to better see. Slowly, the butterfly – a monarch butterfly – wriggled out of the cracked envelope, and, in little time, it freed itself from it, spreading its still wet black, white, and amber wings, to let them dry.

With his mouth open, Schmendrick observed it. How beautiful... He wondered again why caterpillars turned into butterflies, how could such goofy-looking, clunky creatures managed to become something so comely. It was almost like magic, the boy thought, as if caterpillars carried within them the hidden desire and potential to become something else, until, with much patience, determination, and the right circumstances, they could blossom out of their chrysalis. Schmendrick unintentionally smiled, at that thought, for it sounded so appealing he couldn’t dare to hope.

* * *

Molly put down her already full basket, huffing, and glancing towards Dylan. The boy was busy picking up dry twigs, but, as children would usually do, he would get distracted by whatever thing caught his attention in the surroundings – a bird, a rustle of leaves, the soft mooing of cows in the nearby pasture...

“Dylan, come on,” she called him out. “We don’t have all day, and mama needs the twigs to lit the fire. You don’t want to skip dinner, or to eat cold gruel tonight, don’t you?”

The child winced, dropping the twigs he had already gathered in his tiny arms. With an exasperated sigh, Molly got up and went for his help. “Here,” she said, “let me help you. Mind you, this is the last time.”

She always said so, but, as much as she wished to be stricter, she still ended up helping Dylan anyway. She just couldn’t help it. Molly added some more wood in her own basket before adjusting it on her back and invited Dylan to start their journey back home.

“What were you listening to, you dummy?” She asked her little brother with a gentle pinch on his arm. “To pixies, whispering lullabies in your ears?”

Dylan shook his head, still thoughtful. “Are pixies real, Mollie?”

“Who knows?” Molly held his hand as they walk, a habit she had to develop quickly since it was common for her to watch over Dylan in their mother’s absence. “Would you like them to be real?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then why shouldn’t they? If they are real to you, so they must be.”

The child’s eyes shone, and Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. “What would you like to tell pixies, if you met them, Dylan?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

Molly wondered if Dylan too stayed awake at night, thinking about pixies, just as she thought about unicorns. Probably, yes, she concluded. _Let’s hope reality does not hit too hard on him in the future_.

When they arrived home to deliver the wood to their father, Molly’s mother immediately instructed her daughter to make a trip to the village and fetch her some tallow, for she needed it to make a few candles. She had asked the butcher to store some for her, but she couldn’t go herself. Molly cheerfully agreed. A walk through the woods on her own was always welcomed, since this way she could daydream as she please.

Briskly setting off on the path leading to the village, Molly immediately started to fantasize again. She wasn’t Molly Grue, now, but Maid Marian, on a very important mission that would have helped Robin Hood and his merry men escaping from prison, and she would have needed all her wits and ability to accomplish it.

The child was so into her fantasy that she didn’t realize she had actually lost her way, at one point. Maybe it had been when she had climbed a tree or had hidden into a bush, pretending to have heard guards approaching... The result, though, didn’t change. Molly suddenly realized that she wasn’t walking on a path she knew and that the forest was becoming denser and denser.

 _Well, now_ , she thought, scratching her head. _That’s inconvenient..._ She looked around, trying to find any sign that would have helped her orienting herself, but she could spot nothing familiar.

With an exasperated sigh, Molly sat on a rock. _Alright, stupid girl, think about what uncle Alan told you_ _about musk..._ Her eyes quickly considered the tree trunks, trying to figure out on which side the musk was growing. _Uncle Alan said that it grows on the side exposed to the north_. When Molly thought she had correctly found her orientation, she got up and calmly walked in the direction she had deemed correct, proud of herself.

Now, she was Maid Marian, walking through the woods, looking for Robin... She started to whistle the ballad uncle Alan always sung, imaging that it was the conventional password she and Robin had agreed on. Molly almost expected to see a figure dressed in green coming out of the wood, answering to her whistling. Oooh, that would have been so... _scary_?

Molly nervously looked around. Alright, being alone, deep into the forest, was starting to make her a little upset, and seeing a stranger coming out of nowhere would have totally made her freak out. Moreso, she found out with horror she had forgotten her pocket knife.

 _Never mind it_ , Molly thought, huffing. _There’s no one around, human or beast, and in the remote possibility I’ll need to defend myself, I’ll just use rocks._ Also, her dad had taught her how to punch, so, in case of a fistfight, she was well ready and trained. Not exactly what Marian would have done, but – hey – what could a nine-year-old girl do? Entrance marauders with her astounding lady-like manners? Nay, nay... a well-placed right-hook would have given her at least the time to run away, in case of bad encounters.

Stubbornly, Molly kept on walking, trying to suffocate a tiny, annoying voice inside of her head, telling her that she was getting more and more lost. She wasn’t! She knew how to find her way home! What was she, a stupid rugrat?

 _Mama will be furious, for sure_. Molly bit her lower lip. She could almost hear her voice, upbraiding her for having lost her way while indulging in her silly fantasies... “Served you right, child,” Molly imagined her saying. “This will teach you that daydreaming too much can do you more harm than good.”

She needed to stop and think. Sitting down again on a tree stump, Molly covered her eyes with her hands. Alright, she was lost... But she had no time for crying or despairing. She needed to focus. She tried again to check on the musk, but since it made her more confused, she decided to give up on that trick. _Well, Robin Hood would never allow me into his band, if I’m not even able to orient myself in a forest._

Maybe the better thing to do was just sit there, waiting for someone to come looking for her... After all, they knew she was heading to the village, and, when they hadn’t seen her coming home when expected, they would have come after her. Yes, the solution seemed easy and reasonable enough for the child. She crossed her legs on the stump, patiently waiting.

The forest was very quiet. Eerily quiet, to Molly’s taste. Feeling another surge of fright down her spine, Molly tried to concentrate on much more pleasant thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, that was the right place to finally see a unicorn. It was peaceful enough, apparently far from human eyes, and she was a little girl, a young maiden, the perfect companionship for a unicorn... She almost shuddered in a sudden fit of anticipated awe and amazement. What if the unicorn would even have let her touch it? She started to squint through the trees, eagerly.

But there were no unicorns in sight, no magical creatures approaching. Molly hung her head, feeling incredibly stupid. What was she expecting? No unicorn would have come to her now, as no one was coming to look for her. At that moment, little Molly Grue started to feel really sad and scared, and began to weep, silently, her face hidden in her apron.

When she finally calmed down, she sniffled, scrubbed her face, and took a deep breath. Getting up, the child tried again to find her way. That’s what she had been taught, all of her life: never wait for others to do stuff in your place, never wait for things to happen, but _make them happen_. Her fruitless waiting for the unicorn had made that clear in her mind, and she was determined not to wait in vain for her family too.

She walked, with stubborn determination, making sure to fix in her mind the direction she had taken, in case she needed to retrace her steps. With lots of trial and error, more tears, and a great deal of determination, Molly slowly reached for a clearing she knew well, from where she would have been able to go back home.

Halfway through the path, Molly started to hear voices calling for her. She hurried to them, almost jumping in the arms of her father, who frantically clutched her, attempting to chastise her with a broken, quivering voice. Uncle Alan was there, too, pale as chalk.

“Molls, just where the hell have you been? You made us sick with worry. We couldn’t find you anywhere!”

“I was lost, uncle Alan,” Molly said, lifting her head from her father’s smothering embrace. “But I find my way home all by myself!”

The two men were so relieved they had finally found Molly that they didn’t even hear Molly’s mother approaching. The woman took the child from her husband’s arms and, after lovingly hugging her, put her down, and stared at her, gravely. She _knew_ why Molly had lost her way; she could read it on her daughter’s face. Molly turned red, lowered her eyes, and started to weep again. Her mother held a hand out, only saying, “Come on, Mollie. Let’s go home.”

Sniffling and rubbing her eyes, Molly nodded and took her mother’s hand. Walking by her, the child reflected intensely about what had just happened. Not only she had got lost following the river of her thoughts, but she had also fooled herself thinking that at the moment she was the more lost and lonely, a unicorn would have jumped out of nowhere to... to what, _save her_? Yes, like that was ever likely to happen! Never, Molly thought, never she would have let that happen. Her fantasies would have never made her lose her way again, leading her in the middle of the forest, scared and desperate.

As for the unicorns... well, hoping to still see one wouldn’t have hurt her. She could wait a little longer. _Not too long, I hope_ , she thought. _Maybe ten years, at best..._ She tightened her grip on her mama’s hand, at that thought, with a sudden shiver.


End file.
